


"I love you," says the woman/says the man

by Pure_Anon



Category: Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: Angst, Depression, Experimental Style, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Infidelity, Neither of them is happy., Originally Posted on Tumblr, Post-Canon, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:09:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27703931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pure_Anon/pseuds/Pure_Anon
Summary: She stays in Paris with her grandmother and her conman, trying to convince herself it’s what she’d hoped for.He stays in Paris because he doesn’t know what else to do now that his world’s been torn apart.They are lovers (this does not mean they are happy.)
Relationships: Anya | Anastasia Romanov/Gleb Vaganov
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	"I love you," says the woman/says the man

_“I love you,” says the man._

_“I have hurt you too much,” says the woman._

She stays in Paris with her grandmother and her conman, trying to convince herself it’s what she’d hoped for.

He stays in Paris because he doesn’t know what else to do now that his world’s been torn apart.

_“I love you,” says the woman._

_“I don’t deserve your love,” says the man._

They are lovers.

How and why they become lovers is not important. Perhaps they run into each other by chance, perhaps she deliberately seeks him out, perhaps, perhaps, perhaps —

It’s not important.

What’s important is that they are lovers.

_“I love you,” says the man._

_“How can you?” says the woman._

They spend their nights together, two desperate people pressed together in a search for understanding. In the morning, he makes her tea, and they have careful conversations before she leaves. He spends too long looking at the door she closes.

They don’t lie to each other, but they don’t tell each other the truth either.

_“I love you,” says the woman._

_“You shouldn’t,” says the man._

Paris isn’t what she’d hoped for. Truthfully, she isn’t sure what she expected, but it wasn’t people who look at her and only see a half-remembered child. The faded opulence of this life chokes her in the same way the grayness of Russia had. She’s caught between the past and the present, belonging in neither.

She loves her grandmother, but her grandmother loves a memory.

The conman doesn’t help. He wants the princess, not her, and she pretends it doesn’t hurt. She strokes his arm and smiles at him with the actress’s smile that he taught her. He never notices.

She knows she should leave him. But she’s always been greedy, always been wanting, and she can’t bring herself to do so, even if the person she is isn’t the one he wants.

She’s never claimed to be a good person.

_“I love you,” says the man._

_“Why would you do that to yourself?” says the woman._

He’s always been too weak, too soft, and he can admit that now. His father would have shot her the first time, would have returned to Russia with her blood on his hands. But he’s not his father, and that’s why he hadn’t, why he _wouldn’t_ , and why he’s here now.

He should have said no when she’d told him what she wanted, told her to return to her conman, told her to return to the life she’d claimed would make her happy. Instead, he’d let her sink her teeth into his weakness, willingly let her take advantage of his softness. If he hadn’t belonged to her before, he did now, and he can’t forget it.

He doesn’t want to forget it.

_“I love you,” says the woman._

_“Please don’t lie to me,” says the man._

She knows she’s a bad person. Someone good would be satisfied with the life she’d stolen, would be faithful, wouldn’t be sleeping with the man whose life she’d wrecked.

Sometimes she looks at him and the guilt she feels threatens to overwhelm her. It’s her fault he’s here, her fault that he’s trapped far from the home he loves. He never lied to her. He’d been brutally honest, and it’s not his fault she was too naive to listen. She hadn’t lied, not directly, but she’d hidden and manipulated, and doesn’t that come to the same thing in the end? She’d seen his kindness, kindness that she didn’t and still doesn’t deserve, and she brought him here.

She hates herself, hates that she isn’t happy with what she’d brought upon herself. She’d gone after what she wanted, damning the consequences, and she despises herself more and more each day.

She wonders how he can bear to look at her.

_“I love you,” says the man._

_“I’m not worth loving,” says the woman._

He wants, and he wishes he didn’t. He wants more than she can give, more than he’ll ask of her.

He knows she’s not happy, knows that her life isn’t what she wanted. He thinks if he were sensible he’d be angrier than he is, but he has never been able to bring himself to hate her, not then and not now.

He knows too well what it’s like being trapped in the shadow of your past.

He loves when he makes her smile. Real smiles, not an actress’s smile, but smiles that light up her face like the sun. It’s even better when he makes her laugh, big inelegant laughter that makes her tear up. He likes making her happy, even if it’s only for a moment.

He loves the conversations they have. Each one they have traps him a little more, but he can’t bring himself to care. He could spend hours talking with her, if they didn’t always have a time limit. He loves how passionate she is when they disagree, loves the sharp humor she brings out at just the right time, loves her surprisingly compassionate side.

He loves her.

He can’t lie to himself and say he doesn’t, not anymore.

Sometimes he wakes with his face pressed to her neck, his arm slung around her, and he forgets. He forgets that what they have is a falsehood, that she’s only with him a few nights a week. He always remembers eventually, always exhales a shaky breath, always moves away from her.

He belongs to her, body and soul, and though he knows he shouldn’t, he wishes she loved him.

_“I love you,” says the woman._

_“Please don’t lie to me," says the man._

Sometimes she thinks she might love him.

He calms her. His presence grounds her, makes her feel real. She doesn’t have to play a part with him. At home, she feels like she’s losing herself, losing herself in the role of princess, granddaughter, lover. He takes her as she is, even though she doesn’t understand why.

Most days it feels like there’s nothing inside her. She’s an empty vessel, ready to be filled with the desires of the people surrounding her. With him she feels whole.

He makes her happy. She’s never laughed more than when she’s with him, never argued more passionately, never wanted so badly for him to continue looking at her the way he does. He’s gentle with her, and more patient than he should be.

She knows he wants more. Knows he wants to ask for it. Knows that he won’t.

He deserves better than her. He deserves someone who didn’t use him for her own gain, who can’t even be happy with what she’d gotten in the end. She wishes she could be happy. She wishes that being with him wasn’t the only thing that made her so.

She wonders what they could have been if they’d both stayed in Russia. Would they be in love? Would they be happy? Would she be satisfied?

Could that happen in France?

If she left the conman, if she told her grandmother what she wanted, could they be happy here? Could they build a life together? If she simply didn’t leave in the morning, what would he say?

But what if she wasn’t happy with him?

What if she’s destined to never settle, to always feel a stranger no matter where she is? Can she never be permanently happy, even with him? If she told him her desires, would she drag him into her self-imposed hell?

She doesn’t understand why he wants more. She’s nothing but a broken, unhappy, foolish, _naive_ —

He shouldn’t want her.

She doesn’t even want herself.

_“I love you,” says the man._

_“I don’t understand,” says the woman._

He wishes she would say something. She must know how he feels. She must have known since the moment they met, seen him and thought he was a weak man.

She was right.

He wants to bare his heart to her, to kneel at her feet and ask for her. He won’t.

He’s nothing but a body to share a bed with to her, a reminder of Russia, someone to spend time with when she doesn’t like being the princess. He has nothing to offer but that, except the heart of a foolish man who had dreamed, once.

She doesn’t want him; she wants someone to forget with.

If he asked for her, she would leave him. He knows this, knows that she can’t want him. He’s nothing but a broken man who wants more than he deserves.

He doesn’t deserve to want.

_“I love you,” says the woman._

_“Don’t do this to me,” says the man._

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Perhaps she leaves him for her conman. Perhaps they continue like this forever. Perhaps they say those words.

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Perhaps.

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_“I love you,” says the woman/says the man._

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**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted at https://nanasalt.tumblr.com/post/615600710490439680/i-love-you-says-the-womansays-the-man
> 
> My tumblr can be found at pureanonofficial.tumblr.com


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